Sunday, March 30, 2014

Foxe felt
it—a shudder in the deck beneath his boots. He shot a look at Frique. “What was
that?”

Frique’s
hairless scalp was glistening with sweat as he helped Foxe move Rumav’s limp
body through the passageway. They’d thrown a green gown around the kid; his
skin was still slippery from the fluids in the crèche, but he was
walking—actually, Rumav was stumbling like a wounded drunk with their arms
around him. The single being they’d encountered while making their way here, a
customer of Morine’s, didn’t care what they were doing. He just walked away
muttering about costs, and Foxe felt relieved at not having to shoot him.

The
docking junction was down at the end of this corridor. Just a dozen more
meters—

An
alarm began booming around them before the shaking stopped.

“Shista,”
Frique said. “Hull breach.”

“ATTENTION!
STATION WILL LOCK DOWN IN THIRTY SECONDS! STATION WILL—”

Then
the voice ceased as if a knife had cut it. The alarm stopped. What the—

Frique
dropped Rumav into Foxe’s arms. “We’ve got to get out of here.” Rumav groaned
as Foxe caught him. His eyes flicked with confusion and fear, then closed again.

“Wait!”
Foxe tried to grab at the tech but Frique slipped away. Before Foxe could lower
Rumav safely to the deck he felt a different pounding under his feet. Running.

“Wait!”
He lunged forward and snatched Frique’s ankle. They fell to the deck and Frique
rolled over, kicking frantically at Foxe.

The
pounding drew closer. Foxe glanced up over his shoulder and saw the two Udorian
males who wanted a son. Their names were Clayte and Tenner, and they running
like panicked urfallo down the passageway. One of the big Udorians kicked
Foxe’s leg by accident as he ran past. The other one jumped over Frique’s arm.

Good—distraction.
He nudged Frique with his boot. “Move! Fast!”

He
lugged Rumav down the passageway. Ahead in the junction, he could see the security
andy struggling with the two Udorians. Big as they were, the andy could have
taken both of them down in a few seconds if Tenner hadn’t wrapped himself
around its trunk, pinning its arms down so it couldn’t fire the pulsers
installed beneath its synthskin. The side of his face was bleeding, though—the
andy must have gotten off at least one shot too soon.

Clayte clutched its head, twisting it
from side to side. That rarely worked—most androids had their primary
processing units mounted inside their torsos. But that didn’t matter to Foxe as
long as they kept the andy distracted. Most beings thought androids were
invincible and indestructible, thanks to the marketing techniques of their
Murrani manufacturers. But Foxe had fought them often enough to know where the
vulnerable points were.

But
just as Frique reached the junction area, two more andys popped from a
compartment inside a bulkhead, darting forward in search of targets. “Get
down!” Foxe shouted.

A
bolt of plasma spurted from one android’s palm, hitting Clayte in the back. The
Udorian screamed as his shirt and skin burned away but somehow kept his grip
tight around the andy’s head. Tenner ducked his face behind the andy’s body,
howling in rage.

Frique
flattened himself on the deck. With a quick, “Sorry, kid,” Foxe dropped Rumav
and dove toward the second new android. He skidded past its legs and jabbed a
fist up into its back, at the base of where a human spine would be. He felt a
metal disc beneath the synthskin and punched again, and the andy froze.

Not
for long—the android would reroute its control systems in a second, but the
interruption in signal flow gave Foxe enough time to shove it against the other
andy, knocking its arm away from its aim on Tenner. Foxe kicked himself forward
and slammed against the two andys as hard as he could. Pain lanced his shoulder
but his push knocked both off their feet and onto the deck with twin thuds.
“Get the kid!” he shouted to Frique.

Looking
for Rumav, he saw Clayte slowly collapse, toppling to the deck like a fallen
skywood tree. Clayte stared down at Tenner’s body, his arms still wrapped
around the andy’s torso, and howled in rage.

Keep
screaming, Foxe thought as he grabbed the rising arm of one andy and rammed
the heel of his boot down into the other one’s chest. He felt the andy’s
primary system drive crack, and its head flopped to the deck as Foxe jumped to
his feet. But the other android rose up at the same moment, both arms thrust
forward as if intent on crushing Foxe’s body in a lethal embrace.

Foxe
lowered his head and pushed himself forward between the android’s outstretched
arms before it could fire a blast from its murderous pulsers. Hit it, he
thought as he reached around the andy’s waist and jabbed his fingers at the
control disc in its back. His blow connected; nothing happened. Damnit to
hellcore! The machine had already rerouted its control after observing
Foxe’s tactics with its partner.

Foxe
dropped flat and pushed at the andy’s knees. One foot shifted slightly. He
shoved again and the andy fell, crashing to the deck, plasma surging wildly
from its palms. Heart racing, Foxe hurled himself on top of it, slamming both
fists down at the secondary control unit inside the killing machine’s chest. Come
on, damn it, shut down! It raised an arm and Foxe twisted his head, feeling
the plasma sear the back of his neck as he stabbed downward again. This time
something crumpled beneath his knuckles and the andy’s arms dropped.

He
saw Frique dragging Rumav toward an airlock and felt a rush of relief. Just a
few more seconds to safety. Tenner was kneeling next to Clayte’s body, a
screeching wail keening from his throat. Poor bastard . . ..

More
footsteps pounded the deck. Foxe staggered to his feet, legs aching, and turned
to face the next rush of security forces. But the beings hurtling into the
junction weren’t security. He saw a young station tech, face pink with fear,
shoving his way past two more human customers who were half-dressed and gasping
for breath as they ran. More followed behind them. Foxe could almost smell
their desperation. Lockdown or not, these beings wanted off the station, and a
tether connection couldn’t hold their ships.

A
bear-built security guard called Borr shoved a human female and lumbered
through the throng. Foxe braced himself for an attack. But Borr wasn’t
interested in him, or in slowing the stampede. His eyes were tight slits as he
scoped the area for the nearest open airlock. Getting out, like the rest of
them.

One
of the fallen andys tried to lift an arm; Borr glared at it and slapped his comsol,
and the android’s eyes went dark. He blinked at Foxe, veered away from him, but
Foxe tripped him with a quick kick and he went skittering across the deck,
clawing for his pulser.

Foxe
planted a boot in the center of the guard’s broad back and whipped the cable
from his arm. He slung it around Borr’s throat and pulled until he heard
desperate gasps for air.

Before
Foxe could answer, Borr slid his arms beneath his body and thrust himself
backward, up from the deck. The sudden move gave the cable around his throat
some slack, and he twisted, trying to scramble free.

Foxe
dropped the cable and jumped back, knocking into a Ustalli’s flailing tentacles
as it scuttled toward the airlocks. He aimed the pulser at Borr’s body.

“Foxe,”
Borr whispered, his voice raw. “You skullfucking son of—” Still straining for
breath, he lunged for Foxe.

Foxe
shot him in the chest. Borr stopped, his feet slipping on the deck, and his
face grew pale. “You—slimesucker . . ..” He closed his eyes and fell, clutching
his chest, and rolled onto his side, curling up like a bug trying to protect
itself. Borr’s shoulders shuddered, then went limp, and he was dead.

Idiot.
Foxe turned, peering through the growing crowd of desperate beings trying to
flee. Clients abandoning their dreams of genetically-manipulated children,
station crew just as frantic to leave Leda to its fate, security guards
shooting through anyone unlucky enough to stumble in their path, and at least
one crèche refugee, naked and dripping, staggering with hazy eyes. Shouts of
rage mixed with loud weeping and fists pounding at the airlock hatch. Foxe
smelled the different odors of sweat and excrement from the cascade of
frightened beings, caught the scent of alcohol and a whiff of perfumed
pheromones, but most of all he smelled fear. Death. Desperation. All because
of me, he thought, suddenly angry. What did Shrinn want with him? Why was
he so important now?

A
security guard shoved his way to the andy’s desk and began pressing keys. In a
moment the airlock hatch began to rotate, and the cluster of bodies tightened
into a knot as each being fought to be first through the opening. Foxe saw a
pair of shoulders push forward, scraping the sides of the hatch; another body
fall to the side, screaming as the crowd crushed him against the bulkhead in
their desperation to escape.

He
realized he was looking for Val in the churning mess of beings. But she wasn’t
coming. They had to leave. Now. He spotted Frique, looking angry and scared,
his hands hooked under Rumav’s arms and his hairless skin slick sweat. Foxe ran
toward them, pushing two beings in Leda uniforms out of his path.

He
pointed to the open lock. “Third tether. Get him in there and bring the systems
online.” He blinked, bringing back the access code Val had set up for him.
“It’s Omega 357 Epsilon, slash Foxe. F-O-X-E. Go! I’m right behind you.”

Frique
glared at him. His arms were trembling with fatigue and his face was close to
total panic. But Foxe’s order, and the hope of getting free of the station,
gave him a final jolt of energy. He lurched toward the lock. “Come on, boy. At
least the tether will be zero-gee.”

Foxe
took one last look up the passageway. No Val. Damn it. Damn it to hellcore.

“Are
you coming?” Frique barked.

How
much time did she have? Not enough. Not nearly enough.

“Are
you any kind of a pilot?” Foxe asked.

“I
can handle a NavBoard. I ran the bridge on the last ship when the boss—why are
you asking . . . ?”

“Wait
ten minutes for me,” he heard himself say. “Then leave if I’m not there. Set
the NavBoard for Riskannon, it’ll be in the database. Take him.” He patted
Rumav’s arm.

“What
are you going to do?” Frique demanded.

Everything
seemed clear now; his mind was quiet, his muscles relaxed despite the distant
thump of pain in his shoulder and his neck. It was the kind of peace he only
felt when he got ready to die.

“You
get going,” he said.

Without
another word, Frique began dragging Rumav toward the airlock.

Foxe
forced a deep breath into his body, letting it focus him. No time for anger. Thirty
minutes. Fifteen by now. Time was sliding down the event horizon.“Damn it to hellcore,” he muttered.

Foxe launched himself against the surge.

TWENTY-THREE:
Tricks

Val trembled
as she fought the pleasure rippling through her body. No, no, go, don’t let
it— And then the sensations vanished.

The
sudden emptiness made her scream.

She’d
been tortured by Lakach bandits with dull knifes and rough rope. Still had
those scars. Llanos Cartel dealer had skulljacked her brain, locking her mind in
cold silence that seemed to last for centuries. She’d been threatened with gang
rape by the Dragonlords of the Eighth Order, but fortunately the First Lord
needed almost six days to achieve a full erection, and she’d managed to escape
while his massive organs—three of them—were still limp. But the fear had taken
root in her memory.

Through
it all, she’d survived because she could endured pain and fear and stay sane.
She could handle torture, at least for a while.

But
this wasn’t pain. And—kitt!—she didn’t want to escape it.

Every
time Azid withdrew the claw from her arm the pleasure stopped, and she felt as
if she was falling into a pit of frustrated desire with no bottom. Her rational
mind was a whisper in a thunderstorm of physical need. She had to tell him. She
couldn’t. She wanted to. She would—she knew that. Sooner or later . . . sooner
. . . now! No. Yes! She’d talk. She’d do anything. But no, she had to wait.
Give Foxe as much time as possible, a chance—

“You
want to answer,” Azid urged. His voice was soft, soothing.

“Yes,”
she said.

“Then
tell me. And you can have it all.”

She
took a deep breath. “I—I told you,” she grunted. “Ben tried to rape me. I just
wanted to see the crèche . . ..”

He
hissed sadly. “No more pleasure, then.”

She
wanted to beg him to touch her again, but instead she clenched her teeth,
gasping in frustration. The intake of air in her throat cleared her mind a
little. Just enough to cut a line between her desire for more pleasure and her
conscious judgment. The longer he held off—the more he denied what she ached
for, damn it, she wanted it!—the easier it would be to keep fighting. Without
the surge of pleasure from his claw she wouldn’t have to face the crushing
disappointment that came when he pulled it back. In a few minutes she might get
more pleasure, enough to make it—

The
door slid open, and Val cursed silently. An interruption meant she’d have to
wait longer for Azid to touch her again, to give her—No! Kitt! She
hunched forward and took another deep breath, resting her face in her hands. At
least they hadn’t restrained her yet. Azid was armed, and by now she was too
helpless with lust to think about breaking free. What did Morine want?

Go
away, Val thought. Let me take it once more. Please.Azid
stepped back, and his arm slipped back to its normal length. “We‘re very close—”

She
yanked the nerveblade from Azid’s belt. Fingers curled tightly around the
handle, she marched toward Val’s face. “What was in that crèche?”

“I
don’t know what—” Was?

“Where
did you take it? That material, where is it?” She activated the blade, creating
a thin silver beam that glittered from its handle.

Where
. . . ? Rumav was out of the crèche? How?

Foxe.
Of course. He’d done something right. Probably an accident.

Val
shook her head. “I just don’t know—”

Morine
stabbed the nerveblade at Val’s eye.

She
remembered that they hadn’t closed the chair’s restraints. Her arms were free.
She reacted by instinct, blocking Morine’s arm and pushing the beam off target.
Morine stumbled back, reaching for her dartwand, her face choked with rage. But
Azid stepped forward at the same moment and they collided. It gave Val just the
chance she needed.

Pushing
off from the chair, she launched a high kick that connected with Morine’s
shoulder. Morine fell back into Azid’s arms. With a curse the Venzoid shoved
her away, reaching down for one of the neutron pistols strapped to his leg.

Val
jerked forward, hitting Azid’s chest with her bent arm. She tackled him to the
deck, and his roar of anger shook her body. The breath from his belly smelled like
spoiled protein cubes and fried eggs. She grabbed at his wrist as he fumbled
for the neutron weapon, and slammed his hand down against the deck. The weapon
skittered away, but Azid brought another arm around and punched her face like a
hammer. Stars exploded in her eyes, yellow and white, and the blow rocked her.
She shoved down on Azid’s chest and thrust herself to her feet, snapping her
heel down on another one of his three hands as it clutched at a flechette
pistol on his other leg.

Morine
had her dartwand in her fist. “All right, bitchlicker,” Morine growling,
breathing heavily. “Stop it right now—”

The
blast from the door caught Val by surprise. Morine never saw it—a bolt of
plasma that burned into her spine. She opened her mouth, tried to scream, but
she dropped before her lungs could draw the last breath she needed. Her biomech
hands flinched, searching for signals from her brain, but she was already so
close to dead that her fingers could do nothing but clench empty air.

Foxe
stood in the doorway.

Blood
on his sleeves, sweat on his face. His eyes flicked across Val’s body for
injuries, and his gaze made her feel . . . warm.

Then
he turned his weapon and shot Azid as he scrambled across the deck. The blast
incinerated his eyestalks, and then he pumped a second bolt into the gaping
mouth in the Venzoid’s belly. An odor worse than the stench of his breath burst
in the air, and a puddle of fluid spread in a black sticky circle around his
body.

Foxe
waved an arm. “Come on.”

Val
looked down at Azid with a stab of regret for the pleasure she’d never receive
from him. Disgusted with herself, she leaned down for Azid’s neutron pistol.
“Well, you've screwed up everything.”

“Yeah.
I could see them begging for mercy. We’ve got maybe eight minutes before—”

“I
know. Who is it? Shrinn?”

“Probably.
I killed some of his people back on Crystal Rendezvous. Didn’t think he’d take
it so—”

“Where’s
Rumav?” She jumped around the pool spreading around Azid.

“Your
ship. Probably in D-space by now.”

“You
gave him my ship?”

“Him
and a tech named Frique, and I trust him less than a leechworm, but I had to
get Rumav out of here as fast as I could if I was going to—” He cut off his
words.

“Rescue
me?” The skin of her face felt suddenly warm, and one of her legs twitched.
Probably just the aftereffects of Azid’s pleasure torture. “Remind me to thank
you. I might forget.”

“Buy
me a drink sometime. Let’s get out of here.” He peered through the doorway.
“Clear. Everyone’s fighting their way off.”

She
came up behind him. “Then let’s find another ship fast.”

“Oh,
good thinking.” He pointed down the passageway. “There’s a docking port that
direction. Come on.”

“Right behind—ahhh!”

Pain
ripped through her leg like a jagged knife. Mother of suns! Her knee
buckled and she tumbled forward, cursing more in surprise than pain. Foxe
whirled around, and the expression on his face scared her more than any of
Morine’s threats had.

One
of Azid’s arms was trembling centimeters above the floor, clutching a flechette
weapon that spit a stream of small metallic darts across the room. Some hit the
ceiling, some sank into Morine’s flesh. Foxe’s arm moved like a whip, and the
pulser flashed. Val saw the small shooter roll across the deck, but Foxe kept
firing, one pulse after another, his jaw clenched tight, his eyes cold and
pale.

When
he stopped, Azid’s body was a lump of charred black tissue. Foxe knelt next to
her, breathing hard, and ran his hand over the wound in her leg. Blood seeped
onto his fingers.

“Think
he’s dead now,” Val said, her teeth tight, willing the medplant in her body to
dull the pain. Sometimes it worked.

“We
don’t have time to get the darts out. Can you walk?”

“I
can handle a little pain.” She pushed against the deck and stood, her leg
steady. “Let’s go.”

“Are
you all right?” He showed more concern than she’d ever seen in him.

“Don’t
have time.” Her first step toward the door was a stagger; the second one was
smoother.

He
fired another blast at Morine’s corpse and whispered an insult she didn’t
catch, then followed her into the passageway.

Her
walking improved with each step, but she knew they’d have to pull the
flechettes out soon. The medplant could only delay infection for a few hours.
Of course, they could both be dead in a few minutes. That clarified priorities.

She
reached a turn in the corridor, but Foxe gripped her shoulder. “Wait,” he
whispered.

“Sure.
We’ve got time unlimited.”

Foxe
ignored her as he crouched and leaned around the corner. “Okay. Come on.”

Around
the turn they stepped through an opening onto a nine-meter square platform. A
vertical shaft extended several hundred meters above and below them. Chest-high
rails guarded the platform’s edge, but they swung open on either corner. A lift
on one corner and a ladder opposite allowed beings to reach airlock hatches
that were spaced every thirty meters up and down the shaft. Most of the hatches
were wide open—someone had obviously overcome the lockdown protocols here, too.
Those ships had sailed. Three were shut and locked, two above them and one
below.

Foxe
pushed the railing open to the lift. “Go up. I’ll cover us.”

“They
took my handcomp.” Its hackware was state of the art, but the security andy had
taken it away before shoving her into the interrogation room. Opening a hatch
without access codes in the time they had was a roll of the dice—one roll, live
or die.He
patted the gameplayer clipped to his belt. “All right—you cover us.” He stepped
onto the lift.

Footsteps.
She lifted Azid’s neutron pistol. “Foxe . . .”

“Right.”
He moved from the lift as two beings raced through the doorway onto the
platform. One was human, male, red-faced and gasping from fear and exertion.
Behind him came a gray-skinned Narixian female, her face calm, as if she were
only late for afternoon tea.

They
skidded to a halt as they saw the weapons pointed at them. The red-faced human
looked ready to pass out. “Wha—what . . ..”

“Take
us on your ship,” Foxe said.

The
Narixian stiffened her spine. “That’s imp—”

Foxe
shot her before she could finish the word. The blast hit her in the middle of
the chest, and she staggered back one step as if trying to escape. Then she
dropped flat on her face, one arm dangling over the shaft.

The
human looked from Foxe to Val and then back. “You didn’t have to—”

“Shut
up,” Val ordered. Part of her agreed with him, but mostly, she realized, she
was just glad Foxe wasn’t wasting time. “Just take us.”

“All
right, just a second . . .” He reached for his belt. Foxe caught his arm and
jammed the pulser into his neck.

“Tricks
get you killed,” he growled.

They crowded onto the lift. “What’s your
name?” Val asked as they ascended.

“Lars.
L-Lars Highcliffe. This is—they won’t—”

“Just
get us on your ship,” Foxe said. “We’ll worry about your friends.”

The
lift came to a stop at the second closed hatch. Foxe pushed Highcliffe onto a
narrow ledge. “You know what to do.”

Highcliffe’s
hands trembled, but he slipped a keychip from his pocket and pushed it into the
slot. Time was running out for all of them. He tapped the entry code with quick
fingers

The
hatch popped outward and they crammed into the airlock. A secondary station
hatch stood open, but the ship’s own hatch just behind it was closed, a
blinking red light warning of imminent departure. Highcliffe punched in another
code, breathing so hard Val was afraid he’d hyperventilate.

The
ship hatch remained shut. Highcliffe entered the code again, and then pushed a
button above the pad. “It’s me! Lars! Open up!” He began tapping the entry code
again, his fingers frantic.

“Highcliffe?”
The voice was impatient. No surprise there. “What the nine hells—get on board!
Where’s Pillek?”

“She’s—”
He flinched as Foxe pushed the snout of the pulser into his back. “Security
andys. They got her. Let me in!”

“Come
on!” The hatch swung inward.

Foxe
shoved him forward. Highcliffe tripped against the foot of the hatch and sprawled
across the deck with a whimper. Before Val could follow, Foxe pushed her to one
side and opened fire, spraying plasma across the entryway. She heard a loud
curse.When it faded into a groan,
Foxe glanced at her and then stepped over Highcliffe’s legs into the ship.

“Okay,”
he said. “Come on.”

Inside
a human male lay on the deck, bleeding from his left side but still alive and
moaning. The entryway was a small, narrow space, with monitors on the bulkheads
for atmosphere, pressure, temperature, and other factors. A storage compartment
was marked “Exo.”

“Cover
the door.” Foxe hauled Highcliffe through the hatch. Val ignored the wounded
human’s gasps of pain as Foxe secured the hatch, her eyes and ears on the
passageway beyond.

“Arno?
Is Lars on board?” The voice came from a comm unit in the bulkhead.

She
looked at Foxe. He shrugged, and kicked Highcliffe’s arm. “Get us to the
bridge. Now.”

He
got to his feet faster than Val expected, still panting anxiously, and
scampered through the inner hatch as if expecting Foxe to shoot him in the
back. Not an unreasonable worry, she thought. The man was ruthless. It
scared her—and made her feel a little more secure. And feel . . . not now!
Kitt!

She felt engines humming beneath her
shoes, and the slight shudder of the ship pulling away from the docking clamps.
The passageway was empty, and its pale yellow walls needed fresh paint.
Highcliffe stumbled once but Foxe caught him, and after huffing and puffing for
a few dozen meters he stopped and pointed to a step of steps. “Up there.”

They’d
hear his words. She expected a shout, or at least a hello, but before she could
wonder about the bridge crew’s lack of curiosity Foxe hammered up the steps,
pulser high in his hand.

Her
leg stabbed her as she hopped up after him. Another pulser blast burst in the
air, but no cries of pain answered it. When she reached the small circular
bridge she saw four beings standing at different stations and a burning hole in
one chair.

The
size and shape of the bridge told her they were on a Cougar-class transport,
not much larger than her yacht. Where was her yacht? She sent that thought away
as she looked over the crew. Two humans, one male and one female, and a
Rann-dishii, all of them more concerned with their boards than with Foxe’s
attack.

At
the command board a tall being stood, eyes stretched wide with anger. His blue face
looked familiar.

“Who
the fugue are you?” he demanded, and although she’d never heard the voice
before she realized where she’d seen him now.

The
Tadori’s skin darkened from blue to black as his anger grew. Then it faded as
he examined the pulser. His eyes began to shrink back to a calm, normal radius.
“Skrag your soul,” he hissed, then turned to the Rann-dishii at the NavBoard.
“Detach and prepare for transition.”

“Skrag
his soul,” the Rann-dishii agreed, but he began entering commands into the
board.

“Hey,
we’ve got a tag.” This came from a human on the SurveyBoard with sweat on the
back of his skinny neck.

Shrinn,
obviously. “Dump it,” Val said. “Scour your hull—”

“that’ll
take ten minutes, maybe more. Are we going to wait here for the station to go
nova?”

“Let’s
deal with that later,” Foxe snapped. “Get us off the station now.”

“All
right,” the Tadori said, his face tense.

“Is
your Forward drive online?” Foxe asked.

“Of
course, but—”

“Then
transition. Right now.”

“You
can’t be serious,” the Tadori said. “We’re right next to Leda.”

“Do
you defectives want to get blown up?” Val jabbed a finger toward the hatch. “Any
second now we’ll lose any chance we have of getting out of here.”

The
Tadori looked ready to leap forward at Foxe, pulser or no pulser, but he
restrained himself with an effort. “Tiki . . ..”

“Beginning
matrix sequence,” the female said.

The
ship suddenly lurched. Val tumbled to the deck, cursing, and almost lost the
neutron pistol.

“The
station is going,” the human male said.

“Do
it!” Foxe ordered.

The
ship seemed to roll, and Val’s stomach churned with the familiar sensation of
transition to D-space. The whirling, twisting confusion inside her body lasted
longer than it should have, and for a moment she was certain something had gone
wrong—the mine hadn’t been repelled, or Leda had blown too soon, or the matrix
had missed an atom of matter or antimatter in its field. She was going to die. Kitt!

Then
they were through. Val opened her eyes, and saw Foxe standing over her,
whispering something with urgent intensity. He stopped when she took a breath,
and his face relaxed.

“You
all right?”

“Just
fine.” She sat up, and the ship spun around her again, but it was just pain
mixed with relief.

The
Tadori knelt, but his face remained defiant. “I know you. Crystal Rendezvous, I
saw you—”

“Ancient
history,” Foxe said. But she could hear the anger in his voice. Quili’s Fire
had brought Rumav here. Brought them here. Brought Shrinn. “Just stay out of my
way and nobody else has to get hurt.”

No
one answered. They didn’t look ready to die, exactly, but they were trying
their best to show him that they hadn’t surrendered yet.

Foxe
fired a burst of plasma into the deck next to Tiki’s foot. “There’ll be one
less in two seconds,” he said. “Who’s in the engine room? Who runs Forward
drive?”

“That
was Pillek’s job,” Highcliffe muttered.

“A
ship this type wouldn’t need a big crew,” Val said.

“We’ll
see.”

Val
grabbed the edge of a chair and pulled herself up. Her leg buckled, and swung
the chair around to plant her butt in it.

She
wanted to sleep. Now that life seemed a little more permanent, the painneutralizers were making her drowsy.
But they had too much work to do. Check the Forward drive’s parameters to make
sure the matrix was stable. Examine the NavBoard to determine the pathway and
take control of the ship once they transitioned. Sweep the ship systems for
traps.

“Keep an eye on them while I look for a
brig.” He pointed to her neutron pistol. “Don’t give anyone a chance to try
anything. Don’t let them talk to each other, or you. Don’t be afraid to—”

“Not
afraid of anything,” she said, her voice low.

He
nodded. “Thanks. For taking care of the mine. I’ll take a look at your leg as
soon as we’re secure.”

“I’m
fine.”

He
nodded again. Something in his eyes that she hadn’t seen before. It hadn’t been
there when Leda was about to explode. Looked like concern. Worry. For her?Then
he turned, and she heard a sigh. “Still alive,” he said.

He
sounded almost disappointed.

“We’ll
find him.” Val wondered why she felt the need to reassure him. Foxe was
arrogant and annoying, but he could obviously take care of himself. “I can
locate Gemstone anywhere in the galaxy.”

“I just hope Shrinn didn’t plant a mine of her.”

Did
he just call Gemstone her? Foxe didn’t seem the type. But Val shook her
head. “High-integrity hull mesh. It’ll detect any mine that attaches itself,
even if it drills in. And throw it off.”

“Must
be nice to be rich. What about tags?”

“Like
that one said—” She gestured toward the SurveyBoard human. “Tags are small.
Scouring takes time. He’ll be able to track her.”

“Then
we’d better be fast.”

Val
nodded. “Yeah. We better.”

Leda died in
minutes.

The
first SP-2s detonated in sequence, a ripple of miniature supernovas bursting
across the station’s hull, tiny but destructive needles of energy flaring and
then vanishing in less than a half-second. The structural forcefields
collapsed, and sheets of oxygen shot from the long rupture, a steady stream of
gas that expanded into thick billowing waves as the gash cracked across the
station’s surface. Huge chunks of the hull ripped free, whirling into the
vacuum.

Then
the secondary mines fell inward through the long gap created by the SP-2s on
the hull, and their explosions a moment afterward tore through the interior
bulkheads and ignited the atmosphere inside. Fire roared silently through the
decks, burning away the remaining oxygen as it tried to escape into the cold
void. The walls began to break up, throwing off white-hot chunks of metal that
whirled into space, quickly fading into black shadows against the dazzling
brilliance of the nebula dust.

The
ships surrounding the station fought desperately to engage their engines and
gain a safe distance. Some made the D-space transition; others were destroyed,
shattered by the debris spinning away from the center of the firestorm,
spilling their machinery and inhabitants into oblivion.

In
moments it was done. A few final bubbles of atmosphere coughed up out of the
empty bulk. They dissipated in seconds, like a flickering meteor hurtling down
from the night sky toward its rocky doom. Shards of the station began drifting
away, dead rats floating on a roiling sea. Maybe a few compartments deep inside
Leda remained pressurized; perhaps some of the crèches hadn’t been damaged; a
few zygotes and fetuses might have survived inside their gestation tanks. But
Leda was gone. In less than a standard day the Sorresana Nebula would be empty
of life once again.

“The
station is destroyed.” Mateon’s voice was quiet.

Silence
dominated the deck. His crew had done their duty, but the complete destruction
of a station full of living, sentient beings wasn’t something to celebrate.
Even when it had to be done.

It
had to be done.

“Begin
a survey on the wreckage,” Shrinn ordered. Videos of a ruined station wouldn’t
satisfy Darel, not without—

“Tracking
indicates the mine detonated less than a hundred meters from the station.” This
came from Mateon. “Somehow the ship—it must have flung the mine free. They
could have installed a defensive hull mesh that—”

“I’ve got it. Hawk Beta. Three thousand light years.”

“Someone could have stolen it.” Aje stood in the doorway. Watching.

“And detached the mine? Hacked their NavBoard in a matter of minutes?”

“The mine detection could have been automatic,” Mateon said.

“Not the NavBoard,” Declannes said. “I tried to access it with everything
I’ve got. Without the right passwords, it’s solid. It’s got to be an evasive
maneuver.”

“Maybe they’re injured,” Aje said. “They need time in D-space.”

Foxe would take Rumav straight back to Riskannon. Lynd’s ship was
flitting randomly across the galaxy didn’t make any sense. Unless . . .

He stared at the shattered remnants of Leda on the screen. “Start the
survey,” he ordered. “Keep tracking the ship. Keep my updated on its location.
They may be trying to lead us away. We need to check the debris.”

“Yes, sir.” Declannes opened another window on his board.

“Let me know if the ship remains in any one place for longer than fifteen
minutes.

Keep the
Forward Drive online. I want to be ready for transition on my order.”

“Sir.”
Declannes gave an affirmative nod.

Aje
had gone. Maybe he disagreed with Shrinn’s orders. But Shrinn couldn’t go
rushing through the galaxy on a pointless chase. Patience before swift action
led to victory.

Sunday, March 9, 2014

From the
1980s through the mid-2000s, I knew a lot of local mystery writers. I belonged
to the Mystery Writers of America (associate member) and went to all the
monthly meetings, and met people like Sara Paretsky, Barbara D’Amato, Sam
Reaves, and others—people who’d published novels and were happy to hang out
with wannabes like me.

And of
course I bought and read their books, and got them autographed. Part of the
reason—to be a little cynical about it—so they might feel obligated to buy my
books if I ever got published. But mostly because I genuinely liked their
writing and valued their friendship.

But I was
always aware that I was friends with their authors. I would picture them in key
roles, hear their voices narrating, and think about how they approached this
scene or that character. Which made for a somewhat different experience than
reading something by Robert Parker or Nevada Barr.

All of this
was before the Internet, of course. Now that I’m reading mostly science
fiction, I engage with authors by obsessively reading their blogs. It’s similar
in some ways, except that they don’t know who I am. I might occasionally post a
comment, but generally I lurk and wait for entertaining flame wars to break out.
(“You’re an idiot!” “No, YOU’RE an idiot!” “You’re a bigger idiot!”)

But still,
it’s a connection to the author. I worry that if I’m ever at a convention and
John Scalzi walks into an elevator, I’ll casually say something like, “Hey,
John, how are Krissy and Athena?” forgetting that he’ll have no idea who this
guy and why I’m asking about his family like a stalker. And then he’ll call
security.

At Windycon
last fall, Jim C. Hines, a fantasy author who was Guest of Honor, was walking
down the hall, and I was THIS CLOSE to saying “Hi, Jim, good to see you!” But I
didn’t. I should have, because I’m sure he would have been gracious; he seems
very nice on his blog and in person. But I realized he wouldn’t have the
slightest idea who I was, and that might be awkward for both of us. Plus, I’m a
coward. But I did go to a reading he gave and got a book of his autographed
later, and he was indeed very nice.

(I will
mention that I did force myself to ask George R.R. Martin if I could take his
picture at WorldCon two years ago. He agreed, but seemed irritated. Fortunately
the picture was fine, because there was NO WAY I would have had the nerve to
ask for a do-over.)

Anyway, I
think about this because I’m frequently doing the same thing now that I did in
my MWA days—choosing the books I read because of my “relationship” with the
author. I don’t read a lot of fantasy, but I read Jim C. Hines’ books because I
like him and his blog. I’d read Scalzi anyway, because he mostly writes the
sort of space opera SF I like, but my enjoyment also has an element of personal
support for him, especially since his political opinions and mine mesh pretty
closely.

I do make a
point of looking for new authors as much as I can, so I hope it all balances
out. And I try to be open-minded about books by authors I know I disagree with,
or who just seem to be jerks online. In my MWA days, I didn’t love every member
I met, but I did try to read at least one of their books or stories in the
interest of fairness.

I do my best
not to read a book with my mind on whether the writer is liberal, conservative,
nice to animals, or awful to panhandlers in the street. I’d probably be less
annoyed with an author promoting a left-wing agenda than one who clobbers me
with visions of a libertarian utopia, but in the end I’m likely to be irritated
either way.

I’m not
leading up to any grand point here. Just trying to remind myself to keep an
open mindabout what I read. Because everyone should.